Emil Donny Donny Donndo

Oh sure, he may look happy as we leave Uncle Neil's place, but guaranteed he is not.  So what has got him so giggly? Darned if I know. Most of the time he doesn't either. Something's just tickling his funny bone, that's all.

You can kinda see where he's lost a tooth, if you know where to look.

A New Year's Jaunt

New Year's Day, Kathy style, meant picking up Emil in Wadena and driving out to my uncle and aunt's north of Margo.

But first, a leisurely morning and a short walk.

Down the road

My cousin Leanne is spending a few days there, having come in with her three kids from Edmonton, so I took the opportunity for a visit.

When Emil and I arrived, Leanne's kids were outside with her sisters' kids, taking advantage of the crisp, bright, sparkly winter day.

The cousins through their grandparents' dining room window

They came in all pink-cheeked to find the rest of us at the table eating Christmas treats and sipping on wine. After a while my cousin Heather, as if we looked peckish, deep-fried what she calls "moose-balls" for a hot snack: marinated moose meat breaded with herbs and spices. Tasty!

When Emil and I waddled out to the car just as the sun touched the horizon, I was pretty sure neither of us would be needing supper.

Beyond, the field south of their farmyard

Bringin' in the New Year

Comings and goings, comings and goings.
Town: mail, lunch, groceries, hardware, Everett's to drop off his mail and pick up my clean quilts. (Our hard water stains fabric, so I enlist my son with his town water.)

Scott chatting with someone parked in front of the post office.

Home: wine, liqueur, ham, scalloped potatoes, which are always a treat to us.
This Hour Has 22 Minutes.
The outdoor timer should be switching on my coloured lights any moment.
Woo hoo!

What are you doing this New Year's Eve?

Here's to another year gone, another to come.

We Love Lefse

When Emil and I went to the Christmas craft and trade show in Margo, my sister Karen was there with a vendor's table. She was selling stained glass ornaments, and baking. All the baking was gone by the time we got there, but I put in an order for some lefse.

On Christmas day when I went to Karen's in the afternoon, she had a variety of delicious foods laid out on her kitchen island and on one of the side cupboards. I pulled some of the dinner leftovers out of the fridge and heated them in the microwave — not the turkey or ham, but the vegetables and the stuffing and the cabbage rolls and the perogies. I ate a couple pieces of lefse and when I was leaving, Karen handed me my order of lefse, which she'd frozen.

Yesterday two slices of it were my supper.

See Stubblejumpers Café - the recipe collection

Thanks, Karen!

Sista Swings By

Karen stopped in on her way home from Wadena after her first pedicure — a gift or a prize or something. She showed me her toes and what was I thinking? No picture! Tsk.

We had peppermint tea and ate some of Lynn's poppycock and yakked our faces off and she left wearing her bright red jacket.

I need to get out there too. Sunlight. Fresh air. Birds.

She just texted me. She saw a beautiful snowy owl on her way home.

*** Update:
I walked three miles and saw a swift red fox.

How Little Old Ladies Visit

Two afternoons, one night.

A colouring book and pencil crayons.

Wine. Supper.

Breakfast, caesars, three games of cribbage. 

More supper.

Bev's masterpiece

Me

New dishcloths made by Scott's sister Lynn doubled as handy coasters. 

My New Stained Glass

See it at SISTER LINES.

Cumpny

The list I haven’t checked twice, but only because I haven’t made it yet, is the one headed “Which friends don’t like flannel?” Damned if I can remember.

One friend can't stand flannel sheets against her skin.
Another loves flannel.
What does Bev like?
Flannel's just ducky. So flannel it is.

Bed made and ready for company:

Christmas Christmas Christmas

There was one year that I was obsessed with different performances of O Beautiful Star. Remember? It was after Eli Barsi had been here, performing it onstage at the hall in Wadena.

Well, this year it's The Holly and the Ivy. Here are the ones I like for one reason or another:










Yes I know it's from the film ... .

He Worries

The first thing I do every morning is, like all of us, head for the bathroom. On the way, my head is a-swivel. I'm looking out the windows. What kind of day is it? What colour is the sky? Are the treetops bending in the wind? Are the branches laden with heavy hoarfrost? These days, they are. Talk about living in a postcard.

Next I look to see if Scott's still home or has already gone on his merry way. Early riser that he is, if he's still here he may be tucked into the corner of the couch with the dog, looking at his laptop. Probably about 50% of the time, he's long gone. Nowadays they are putting out bales for and watering the cattle most mornings before they get on to their other work. Whether he's here and I join him in the living room to drink my coffee, or whether I've got the house to myself, it's all good.

Emil's here this morning and will be till Christmas Day, when his dad arrives from Edmonton. They'll spend the next few days together in town at Everett's.

Emil has two weeks off work now, the same two weeks that I have, but he didn't want to come and stay out here at all. Now that's saying something for the supervised group home, isn't it! He's more than happy there, and tells me he worries that I might make him move back here with me, when he wants to spend the rest of his life there.

I tell him not to worry, that he is always welcome wherever I am, but most mothers want their children to grow up and move out. We don't want to look after them forever.

"I love you, Mom. I would not be happy if you die on purpose." Because we lost a close friend of the family to suicide a few years ago, he worries. I assure him that it won't happen to me, though I will die sometime, and likely before he does. "I think I'll miss you then," he says. Yes, my darling; you will.

Joneski

Meanwhile, littlest sister Joan is in Maui with her kids, hubby, and his mom.
She is trying not to sound like she's stalking Steven Tyler but hm they do pick up their takeout each night at a place he frequents. So why not?

As Emil, at age six, said to Joni Mitchell as held her hand at the Mendel Art Gallery in Saskatoon:
"It's too bad we won't get a chance to get to know each other." Joni graciously agreed.

Joan's post today:
SISTER LINES

Joan and Steve:

Better Angels

The term "better angels" has come into my awareness at least three times in the last couple days, including in this blog entry by Regina author Kathleen Wall.

She starts out by writing about a book whose author claims there is far less violence and repression in the world than there ever was, as opposed to the common belief that "The world's gone crazy."

Maybe you'd like to go read her piece? CLICK HERE. Kathleen's blog entries are always meaty and every time I read one, I think, "Oh my, I am such a lightweight." I say this with a little smile and total acceptance of my place on the scale of intellect. Remind me to tell you about my visualized meetings with my "Intellectual Self" someday. They've been few and short, quite matter of fact, but enlightening too. (Note to Self: Remember.)

Late yesterday afternoon I went for the most exquisite walk, stopping several times just to turn completely around and be fully amazed. There was hoarfrost everywhere and my trusty little camera couldn't capture the peace and encompassing lushness of it.

heading down the road

coming back home

To My Mother-in-Law

I don't know about you, but I have never liked putting wet teabags in a dessert bowl or small plate. I've never had just the right one! Till now. 

The little paddle is even perfect, standing in for a spoon when there's no string on the bag.

Thanks again, Pat!

xoxo

Kathy

ps see attached photo

A treasure Pat brought back from the Maritimes this fall. It's actually meant for serving and spreading cream cheese.

Budai

He's here!

He's not my brother, but he's sure as hell heavy.

A Million Little Things Make Life Grand

Have I really not posted this video before now? If I have: sorry. Longterm daily blogging means inevitably there will be repeats. However, this one is worthwhile either way.

Melissa, the gal singing lead here, is the daughter of a high school friend and is a really fine songwriter.



Farideh, the woman in blue, was among the group in a One Human Family choir workshop I participated in a few years ago in Saskatoon. It inspired her to form Rosie and the Riveters, who are destined for world domination. Farideh also is a strong songwriter, and so is Alexis Normand, the lady in gold. The fourth ... I can't say ... don't know ... but have no doubt she's got similar talents.

I'm just jealous I don't get to sing this kind of stuff with other people. How fun is it! Over the top fun, that's what!

Feels Like Sunday, but Isn't

It was another "necky" day, but I managed to keep moving till midafternoon, when I took a pill and lay down for an hour or so. Even that didn't fix me up, but by evening I was back to normal.

The sky was blue, too, so I went out and filled the birdfeeders before going for a good walk. It had snowed lightly in the morning, and huge flakes sparkled on top of the fresh snow. Just gorgeous. And on the road where there are trees alongside, snowflakes drifted oh so gently from branch to branch to branch. It was so beautiful I didn't want to come back in, but before walking two miles I was starting to feel tired and thought it would be smarter to turn around and come home.

Woke up with the bullshit again this morning and, before doing some yoga and pouring coffee, did some reading and found this wise little tidbit in the book I'm reading:

We Greeks get married in circles, to impress upon ourselves the essential matrimonial facts: that to be happy you have to find variety in repetition; that to go forward you have to come back to where you began. — Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides

I made sure not to run out of reading material for the next two weeks. This sight is exciting to me:

So. It's Monday. I should start a batch of bread and make six loaves every day till Thursday. I can't buy clothing for Everett for Christmas because he's too fussy and prefers to buy his own. Christmas — bah, humbug, he says — and asks me not to give him any gifts at all. I can't do that. No one should wake up Christmas morning and have not even one gift to open; I've been there more than once. I know that is the case for many people; among them, those who don't have mothers. How do I respect his stated wish while still respecting my desire to give? Why, a batch of bread, of course; that, he welcomes at any time and for any reason.

Also, his dad is coming to spend Christmas with the boys. I thought I'd bake a batch for Gord to take home, too, since he always raves about it and appreciates it so much. It's probably the one thing he misses about living with me. And I could bake a batch for my brother Cameron, who also likes good homemade bread; Gord could deliver it when he gets back to St. Albert, for the two of them live in the same building. Will I manage to live up to my best intentions? Right now the kitchen is spikkety-span, and the thought of messing it up with baking is quite unpleasant. Maybe I'll give myself a break; they can all live without homemade bread.

This morning I tackled the second bookshelf and stacked up another 23 books to move out of my domain.  Yesterday I plunked the first box of them onto the back seat of my car, Little Green. It's tough! The tiny library in town is always having book sales to make space for newer books, so it won't want them I'm sure. They end up being recycled — that is, the pages torn from their covers, which is done right in Wadena.  The thought of it turns my stomach, as it does to anyone who loves books. Surely someone would want them! Could use them! We need one of those little book-giving mailboxes somewhere. We need a secondhand bookstore! Hm ... maybe I could just haul them all out to my camper till someone needs one. I mean, there are so many titles of interest ... yeah I know, maybe just to me. But listen:

1. Teaching Arithmetic for Teachers in Training (1945). It was one of Mom's books, I see from her name written on the flyleaf. Sure it teaches the "old" math, but wouldn't that be helpful for anyone tutoring someone in math now, anyway? Julie? Or maybe the local elementary school would find it useful to try a different approach with kids who are struggling?
2. Spanish for Dummies. Yeah. I didn't get far with that. Someday...I always thought.
3 and 4. There is Nothing Wrong with You, and The Key and the Name of the Key is Willingness, by Cheri Huber.
5. The Invisible Partners, by John A. Sanford.
6. The Dance of Anger, by Harriet, Goldhor Lerner.
... and on it goes.
Actually I think I'm going to read through #4 again.
These are all books I think I'll read again one day or give them to someone who might benefit from them ... but it hasn't happened in at least 15 years and probably never will. So ... out they must go. Even The Indian Tipi is already in Little Green. I got as far as sourcing canvas to build one, once, 30 years ago. It's never going to happen. See what I mean?

A Moment in the Night

You know those hours when you're trying to fall asleep but can't seem to? Or maybe you have been dozing, in and out, but you're not sure? Well, Thursday, the night before I woke up sick, was one of those times, and at one point there in the quiet half-asleep dark I thought of Mom's death, of her being gone forever and never seeing her again, and felt this huge rush of deep grief and said to myself "Don't go there, I don't want to go there." It's unbearable is what it is, though of course we all bear it some way, don't we. I'm not alone in that.

Christmas card from Charlene

I've done dishes twice this morning, and made breakfast for the two of us. I've put laundry in, changed the sheets on the bed, swept the kitchen floor, started cleaning out the office closet, wiped out the fridge a bit, put the dried rosehips into a jar, and sorted through the overstuffed linen closet, putting a garbage bag full of unmatched sheets aside for Scott to cover his tomatoes when he finally gets his garden made and planted.

Now I'm starting on my books, going to see which ones I will never likely read again and can part with. I happened — quel co-ink-ee-dink — to open to this page in one of them:

In a study of diaries written over many years' time, Paul C. Rosenblatt, Ph.D., found that people may recover from the worst of their soul-grief in the first year or two after a tragedy, depending on a person's support systems and so forth. But afterward, the person continues to experience periods of active grieving. Although the episodes become farther and farther apart in time and shorter in duration, each recurrence carries close to the same intensity of gut-staggering grief as the first occasion. - Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D, from Women Who Run with the Wolves

Being Sick Sucks

Now that was a day ... and a night ... and this morning is no hell, either.
I've made it home and am sitting up, waiting for coffee to brew, in hopes it will ease my neck.
Maybe I should back up.

Fridays are always busy at our office, as they are the day we have to get the paper together and send it off to the press. No dilly-dallying around on Fridays! All hands on deck!

And this Friday we were putting out the last issue of the year, which includes an extra 24-page Christmas supplement. So twice the pressure, you'd think, although we'd been working ahead on the supplement so were sitting pretty. Fridays are actually my favourite day at the office; I seem to like that little bit of pressure, or maybe I just like getting things wrapped up at the end of the week.

I was at my desk by 8:30. There, but not feeling good, and hoping that by getting my mind off the discomfort, it might go away on its own. Sometimes it does. Yesterday it didn't. By 10 I had taken a pill and was throwing up as unobtrusively as possible in the bathroom, and by 10:30 Alison was asking if I was all right (I must've looked bad) and suggesting I go home. I took her advice and went back to Everett's, where I'd spent the usual Thursday night after watching Torchwood and Doctor Who with my boy.

My expectations were that I'd lie down after taking that pill and in an hour or two I'd be able to go back to the office and do my part. It wasn't the day to be sick. But no. Even taking another pill a few hours later didn't do the trick. I was disappointed, and pissed off that I couldn't be at work. It was a long day of nausea and vomiting, and a long night of an aching neck. The nausea was over last night by 10:30, thank goodness, but the neck still hasn't settled down.

The thing is, when it feels this way, I just want to sleep, to escape the pain of it. But after being in bed so many hours, that is even worse for the neck. It's quite the dilemma! You're between the proverbial rock and hard place.

So what to do? I'm sitting here trying to keep my mind off my neck by clickety-clacking on the keyboard here. I'm sipping the coffee now. I'm hoping for a day free of discomfort. I'm feeling positive that will be the case. And if it isn't, at least I'm home.

Not that Everett didn't take care of me when he got home from work yesterday. He went to the store and bought crackers and gingerale, at my request. The crackers didn't stay down but eventually the gingerale did, so I'm not dehydrated. I should be starving, but am not.

What a way to start the Christmas holiday!

Update, two hours later:
Coffee and toast didn't work the wonders I'd hoped for yesterday, but coffee and a little oatmeal this morning have put me right back to normal. Why? You tell me. I have no idea.  (Scott says I don't eat enough, or the right things.)

I'm just thankful. Exhausted (how can that be, after 22 hours in bed?), but otherwise feeling fine. Think I'll take a bath and head to town later, as I left a stack of new library books at the office, assuming I'd be back in a couple hours, and there's a poinsettia on my desk that needs to come home with me. Before leaving town this morning I drove past the office, thinking I'd go in and get them, but just couldn't do it... feeling that crappy.

Bodies. Who can figure them out? I sure can't. I'm glad mine is usually feeling fine, and the occasional off day? Well ... what can you do. I'm better off than many, and my heart goes out to them. Being sick sucks.

Tooth Talk

"This time I'll take a painkiller as soon as I leave the dental office," I say.

Do I do it? Of course not. I feel fine, just frozen, that's all. I do a bit of Christmas shopping, pay a bill for Emil at the drug store, pick up the mail and stop in at the office first, and then head for home.

I bring in my packages and jack up the heat and then remember my promise to myself. Hm. What to take? There's Anacin, Advil, Tylenol and Aspirin. I take one Aspirin. That should do it; there's no pain.

An hour later there's more ache so I take another Aspirin. It doesn't help. Or maybe it's helping; who knows what shape I'd be in without it? I keep reminding myself that this is not suffering. Suffering would have been living in the days before modern dentistry. In comparison, anything that is done now is a breeze. A simple filling for sure is nothing to whine about.

Men visibly missing a tooth have always meant heartache for me.  I learned to steer clear of them as dates! Emil had to have a tooth pulled on Monday because it was cracked all the way through. It's one of his incisors, or next to one, so I hoped it could be replaced but am told he might not be able to manage sitting through all that would require. I'm not looking forward to seeing that gap in his lovely face. And I'll have to rewire my attitude toward menfolk missing a tooth.

This just in: my nephew and his little family.

Cards of Joy and Peace

It's been years since I took the trouble to send out Christmas cards. No longer does it even cross my mind, except when I receive one and remember what a pleasure it is to receive a personal note in the mail.

This came from Holly, whose wee babe I looked after, near Edmonton, 1989-90. 

This is a postcard from Maggie in Ontario. We were Katimavikers together in 1978-79. Our group was in Kedgwick, New Brunswick; Carlyle, Saskatchewan; and Gold Bridge, British Columbia. Those were the days. 

And this from the Parkinson's Society; no personal note, of course, but a pastoral scene.